The World of Interiors
by Cobainlover4ever
Summary: An examination of some of the most significant happenings in the life of Kurt Wild from his unique perspective. Mixed in are some other people of literature who intersect with Kurt in the mysterious place where love intersects with philosophy.
1. Chapter 1

**The World of Interiors**

 _ **Kurt**_

The recording booth smelled like a Jr. High boy's locker room after a mid-summer baseball game that had gone into extra innings! The nimrods outside-toked up wannabes fooling with the nobs and levers expected me to take deep breaths and sing like a glittered up Pavarotti. I'd been elected to carry the lazy man's load. What the fuck did I know about singing on que, taking direction from an uppity Brit shit who couldn't hold a tune any more than I could lay a golden egg?

And that's what they all wanted, even Brian. They were waitin' on me to deliver a glam-rock Opera that would rain down money on their swelled heads and make the ordeal of suffering the likes of me well worth it. But I couldn't fuckin' sing in that shitbox! Breathing was a luxury. I had to push out each word that passed through my dried up lips with an iron lung. That's when he turned on me. The lover who promised to change my life and bring my special southern brand of rock to the whole friggin world told me in clipped sentences that I ain't cuttin' the bread.

The plastic walls amplified Brian's voice. I felt like a suspect in one of those black and white film noirs. Some innocent bastard gets dragged into a dark, dank room. A single light bulb blasts in his face. The trench coat wearing detective demanding the poor idiot cough up a confession, only he hasn't done anything to confess to, c'ept being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Rube that I was, I fixed my burning blue eyes on Brian. He strutted towards me like Twiggy on a catwalk. The moment it registered to him that I'm suffocating in here, he turned on a high healed boot. I'm the dirty wad of gum stuck to the bottom. Now my momma taught me manners. But life taught me never give my back to a friend. That's how quickly he can become your sworn enemy.

I wasn't gonna be a circus freak for these assholes. But, I'm goddamn bowed up. My body reduced to the most primal of responses. I threw my entire one-hundred and twenty pound self against the Plexiglas. It don't give. I'm still at my enemies' mercy. They're on the outside free to gawk and judge. This is how a horse must feel when being 'broken in.' Such a majestic creature forced into a circular pen with a dirt floor compelled to run lap after lap at his master's bidding.

Worse men than these yaller dogs have tried to ride me. So I tossed out some insults and F-bombs and when that didn't work, I tossed a microphone stand into a glass sound board. The cascading splinters rang like bells of freedom. If I pressed my fingers into the jagged pieces, I'd bleed out all the love I once had for this cheap imitation of a man. He put me in the box, but I got myself out.

 _ **Antoine**_

My eyes were half-opened slits. I was certain that when I could fully register my new environment, I would find that I had passed from darkness into everlasting light and entered paradise. But then the words of Rousseau slipped through my head pounding like cannon fire.

 _Everything is good as it leaves the hands of the Author of things; everything degenerates in the hands of man._

My hands trembled as I applied soot stained fingers to the source of my ungodly pain. My chin throbbed underneath a damp cloth. All that had transpired unwound inside my fevered brain: the months, years really of unimaginable loneliness, the brief and unbridled experience of passionate love, the sharpest sword of rejection applied directly to my heart, and my crazed plan to win back that lost love. It was my opioid, my survival, my salvation.

I once occupied the most sacred and conversely opulent rooms on earth. I was a ghost hovering in the spiced air, hoping for a chance to remain, to _belong_. The incense burning on the holy alter lingered longer touching the face of God than my fading spectral form. I was not called to be a solider of Christ any more than I was to be a soldier of Napoleon.

Welcome to hell. As a seminarian you never imagine that hell could exist on earth, living inside each one of us. The worst of hell is inflicted upon you by others. They attack like the plague, sweating sickness or typhoid. But, you welcome the disease because it is better than being null and void. Your soul either shrivels up to the size of an insect, or explodes upon impact.

I was a prisoner chained to ensure no escape. If I could have spoken, I would have told the jailer I knew there was no way out for me. I thought I had already endured the vilest circumstances mankind had to offer. Prison was a hotter, more immediate and intense punishment than I had supposed. The Rabbi Hillel asked; _if I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself what am I?_ No one had ever truly been for me. Perhaps what I am is not worthy of _being_ at all. Ah! I already knew that too, one thousand times over.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kurt_

Libraries make me itchy. I recon I'm allergic to the mandatory hush that coats every object in the place. It's unnerving. Things like a simple sneeze sound like cardiac arrest. I mean, I'm a man of words and music. I don't need to shout, but I damn sure don't enjoy bein' forced to whisper. I do appreciate the stained glass windows set in places of optimum sunlight. They create magical images.

I'm looking at one now. He's a live rendition of a Picasso painting. The kid's head of black curls is tainted blue where the light hits. The side of his usually pale face is a marigold yellow, with fiery red sliding down the black sleeve of his jacket. When he senses my presence and looks up, a peaceful green ray falls across his eyes causing him to blink.

He's really a total stranger to me in the _strangest_ sense of the word! A few months ago, March to be exact, this cat stumbled up to me after one of my impromptu concerts in the park. It was warm for March, the temperature rising to near 70 degrees. Everybody and their granny came out to hear some free music. Seemed the crazed dude who collided with me like a light-weight asteroid might have had one too many afternoon cocktails! He had the requisite red, droopy eyes to convince me to go easy on him. Falling off the wagon hurts, I know for a fact.

"Y'all need some help?" I kept him on his feet by gripping him by the arms. "Some coffee maybe?"

"I…I need…help, yes."

He squeezed out the words in a foreign accent. He was on the small side, built like a teenage boy. But his wild urgency was particularly adult-like.

"Alright, how bout we start with your name?"

The question stopped him cold. Jesus, I'd gotten lit, high and tripped out, but never enough to forget who I was-try as I might! I noticed a small book in the breast pocket of his mud- stained jacket. I pointed.

"Can I take a look?"

His fingers slid into the space and produced a leather bound prayer book. I found that out by glancing at the first page and the gothic illustrations. I also found that accent he had was most likely French, given the words taunting my ignorance.

"Here," I pointed to a name neatly written in cursive across the top of the page. "This says…" I squinted at the flowery script. "Jul…Julien, right? Is your name Julien?"

A slight glimmer of recognition sparked in his baby blue eyes.

"Oui, yes!" He nodded, curls flying every which way. "My name is Julien."

"O.K. Now that we got that in hand-"

I remembered the manners drilled into me at birth.

"I'm Kurt."

"Kurt," He shook my hand with a surprisingly strong grip. "You can help me find answers?"

"Answers?"

"Yes, I wish to know why I am here."

"I guess y'all didn't come for the music, huh."

His face clouded over with a seriously worried expression.

"C'mon then," I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Let's get fortified with that cup of coffee."

That was March. It's now early June in New York City.

"Why do you stare at me?"

The stone cold sober painting speaks to me. I'm a little embarrassed that I'd been gawking at him; at least my mouth was closed.

"Huh?"

A smile takes it sweet time turning the corners of his lovely lips upward. Some kinda light I know nothin' about shines from within his being.

"You gaze at me as if I am uh…oh…"

His dark eyebrows knit together in concentrated thought.

"How do you say…person from other world?"

"Alien?"

I holler like I'm on a game show and just produced the million dollar answer. A ninja-like librarian with eyeglasses hanging from a chain around her neck, and a dark red braid circling her head leaps out from behind the stacks.

"Sir! Please, I've asked you twice before to respect the quiet of this conservatory."

I avert my eyes from myJulien. If I glance at the shiteating grin, I'm sure he's wearing; I'll be tossed outta here by my long hair.

"Pardon mam. I'm from the South. We're a little more verbose in our conservatories."

"Well, thank goodness Grant took Richmond."

She saunters away with a stack of books in her arms.

"Who pissed in her grits?"

"Perhaps alien."

My head snaps back towards him and that angelic face with the smile of a demon.

"Can we get from here already?" I slide my bum hugged by a tight pair of Levis into a chair opposite him. "I'm hungry."

"I believe word you tell to me about my journey is correct."

He's completely ignoring my growling stomach. A book is shoved towards me.

"Look here," his finger directs my eyes to a word in bold face type. "You see, re… in… car…"

"Yeah, I see. It's what I said in fun, _reincarnation._ "

He folds his arms across his small chest.

"You think this fun for me? You think is game?"

I throw up my arms. I'm not used to one so sensitive.

"No, man, no," I hunker down so the ninja with the red braid won't return. "You're lookin' for answers. I dig it. But, sometimes they ain't in any book, ya get my meaning?"

Hi sharp blue eyes bore into mine. Lord, he's beautiful!

"Where you suggest I look?"

"My suggestion to you, Jude," I grab for his soft hands, "is to never search for anything on an empty belly."

He squeezes my hands and my heart jumps a beat.

"Very well, we fill your empty belly and then my empty head."

The light has moved past the colored glass windows. I fear it's an omen. What if this kid finds what he is lookin' for? Where does that leave me? What kinda cold, shadowy space will I find myself in?


	3. Chapter 3

_**Julien**_

 __I tug the ends of my topcoat together to ward against the chill of the empty courtroom. There are no additional bundled up bodies to add warmth. This centuries old building must have a centuries' old heating system. The unadorned windows which take up an entire wall overlooking the street, allow for an unimpeded view of the swiftly falling snow. Gusts of wind scramble the delicate flakes in their flight towards earth. They are like so many human beings colliding when universes intersect.

I find myself distractedly gazing at the quiet beauty outside. Perhaps there is a chance; the equivalent of catching one single snowflake and holding it in my hand, of finding the answer I seek.

Kurt, my constant, ever patient companion places his hand on my shoulder.

"Does this place give ya the heebies jeebies like church?"

He is referring to the inexplicable dread I have of stepping foot into any church, despite my being somewhat religious. I could recite by heart every prayer in the book Kurt found in my pocket the day we met.

"If anyone should get the shakes from either church, or court, that person oughta be your's truly."

Kurt's laugh is one of the things I treasure most about my new existence. The easy way he shares his delight represents his genuine and unabashed nature.

"Why?"

I wait for his answer while he paces the wood floor, sliding his fingers over dusty tables as he goes.

 _"Why?_ Let's just say I sometimes have a problem with authority," he flashes his sunny smile. "But, not intentionally, it's completely unconscious on my part."

For the thousandth time in nine months, I wonder if my meeting Kurt was intentional. Each time I consider this, I move closer to the certainty that this slow speaking, lanky, musician with unusually long and princely golden hair and sleepy blue eyes is an angel sent to me. Of course, the supposition would cause Kurt to laugh himself to expiration!

"It is true I believe I experienced a terrible event in a church. But, I feel equally strongly that the resolution must be found here."

"Here, as in a court of law."

"Yes."

"Look Jude,"

I am confused and tickled that Kurt has taken to addressing me by the name of one of his favorite songs.

"You got my help with this whole Gordian knot thing, but..."

He scratches near the band of the ponytail holding back his voluptuous hair. Is he the biblical Samson? Who would Kurt surrender his power to?

I ask instead,

"What do you doubt?"

"It's not that I doubt, more like I'm tryin' to grasp your game plan."

"Game plan," I repeat the latest phrase. "Is this like _set list_ you explain when playing music?"

He grabs for the pack of cigarettes tucked snugly in the back pocket of his jeans.

"MMM, no," he shakes out a single cigarette. "A set list is the songs I plan on performing during a particular show."

Kurt strikes a match. The quick rising of the orange flame and Kurt's deep inhale recall lovers kissing.

"But a game plane, well," he examines the glowing tip, "that's more like...well, like a battle plan."

"You view my situation a battle?"

"Hell Jude, I can't name what star ya fell from, but, you are tortured by somethin' I can't get a handle on."

A great exhaustion crushes my bones. This room with its wood panels, tables and chairs, the enclosed box seat to the front of the room and the ominous looking raised leather chair behind a high desk cause an intense desperation in me. I must learn something. I must do one specific thing!

"Did I not explain to you as best I can?"

I'm unaware that I've backed Kurt into a corner. He is studying a wall length painting of ancient Greece. The characters in the picture appear to be goddesses holding staffs and heavy books while the men look upon these powerful women with anguished and pleading eyes.

"Right, ya said you gotta find justice for someone. That's right clear eno-"

When Kurt attempts to turn around, he's crashing into me.

"Damn Jude!" the cigarette dangles preciously close to Kurt's bare arm. "I would ask a man can ya find it in yourself to please standback."

"I am sorry."

I take a step back. It pains me to be a burden.

"No, I'm not talkin' about you," Kurt crushes the cigarette into an ashtray on the low table. "I mean ya can't be so wound up all the time. As far as I understand, there ain't no clock running on you."

He continues undeterred by my silence.

"It's like I told ya about book learning. The important life lessons are gained through living, most times through hard fought livin' at that."

"This why so many people follow your songs? Did you fight hard in living?"

Kurt has not opened up to me about any significant episodes in his life, yet they are written in ink on his pale skin. If only I could understand the colorful symbols.

"I don't know 'bout that." Kurt shrugs. "I just want to make the folks happy. Everyone deserves a time out from their worries, even if it's only the stretch of a few hours."

I nod. I have had the pleasure to attend several of Kurt's performances. The gathering could be as many as two-hundred people, or twenty, the atmosphere is the same; one of deep affection and great joy between musician and audience.

I attempt to follow his logic.

"I need a time out?"

"Yeah," Kurt smacks a hand down on the table as if it were a judge's gavel. "I'm sayin' you gotta kick back a little and enjoy the stuff about being here now, Ram Dass. Who know's?" Kurt eyes the elaborate painting. "You might be pissing off some higher power at this very moment by farting away your chance."

"But, what if my time is limited, and I must return to the place I came from before I locate the answer?"

"Then I'll grab hold of your feet and pull ya back to earth!"

I have absolutely no doubt that Kurt possess this ability. It gives me the strength and desire to leave the empty, sad room and walk in the snow.

"Does snow fall in your Georgia?"

"Not unless cows laid eggs."

I throw his leather jacket at his chest.

"Why then do we fart away in here?"

"Nice game plan, Jude."


	4. Chapter 4

**Kurt**

 **March**

 **New York, City**

 **1976**

The top of the kitchen table is an irresistible resting place. My bleary eyes drift over the circular coffee stains left by countless mugs set there morning, noon and night. To my left is the ashtray made of sea glass a pretty little girl of seven with red-pig tales handed me after a show in Atlanta. She was so damn beautiful. She didn't wear her innocence like an extra layer of make-up the way some of the older kids do. Goodness and simplicity flecked her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The usual gaggle of topless women and men made no impression on me. I wanted to bottle up the sweet essence of this wide-eyed girl so that I could take it out during the times I needed to remind myself that I didn't need to get plastered or high or live _only_ for music!

 _Now_ , I think as my heavy head falls closer to the wood surface and the yellow pad of paper I've been scratching song lyrics on. I've three gallons of adorable in a two gallon bucket! But, the music doesn't care. At least, my bandmates don't give a shit about what's in my bucket, so long as I leave go my protective grip on the _foreign youngling_ and get my yellow pad filled with the long awaited new material and my ass on the road.

As my hair makes contact with scattered napkins, Earle, the band's basest and worldly sage, (he smokes the most hash!) floats above my head in the form of cloudy words from an earlier conversation.

"Ya can't just be a songwriter and jump on the road to play when the spirit moves ya. That's not how it works."

"Why the hell not?" I take a toke from his joint. "The people want good music, our music, what's the difference who sings some of it?"

Earle looks at me like I'm a two headed snake.

"Are ya kiddin'? Like I just rode in on a turnip truck! You're the guts of this band." He tosses the joint onto the concrete under our folding chairs. "Much as I hate to admit it, people wanna see _you_ , hear _you_. Otherwise, we're just like all the other idiots with instruments."

"Bullshit!" I snap. "Much as I hate to admit it, y'all are a bunch of fine musicians."

"Kurt," Earle cracks his big bass player knuckles then folds his hands on his knees. "You've any idea who's returned to the charts lately?"

"Like I give nickel bag, Earle. Music ain't a popularity contest or a fuckin' fashion show."

I'm calling to mind the magazine covers that catch my eye whenever I make a quick run into the market, pharmacy, or even the damn gas station. Musicians covered in spangles, feathers and sequins. Reminds me of the goddamn Miss America pageant rather than anything to do with music!

"Brian Slade." Earle aims his twice broken nose at me. "That sit right with you?"

The name is from another lifetime; one where I paid my dues and then some.

"If you wanna make this about who is the fairest one of all, then ya best move on without me. I'm not yer queen."

"Kurt, I..."

"No man, I mean it, Earle."

When I get myself up from the frayed lawn chair, I examine Earle's face, eyes squinting from the sun. We've both changed in the span of one year. We're after very different things.

"Kurt," Earle's hand shields his eyes from the light. "I'm tryin' to remind you…ya can't just-"

"Can't what, Earle?"

"Ya can't spend the best part of yer career mooning over that French kid. Hell! Are you two even _together_?" What is it he does for you that music don't no more?"

I don't have a clue as to how or exactly when, but, I've lost Earle. I've probably lost the whole band. It's not their fault, it's me.

"This ain't only about Julien."

"Oh really?"

"God, Earle! How can y'all stand it out here?"

He takes a quick check under his chair, then around the little courtyard of the apartment building.

"Out where?"

"This city- this stinkin' fuckin' city where nobody would trust ya far as they could throw you."

"The hell ya talkin' bout, Kurt?"

"You good as accused Jude of taken somethin' from me. You're so far afield, man. He reminded me how much I have and how much I've been wasting."

"Still not in the loop with ya."

"He's on like some serious, mystical journey. He desperately needs to find the core of himself, where he began. He searchin' for those first few notes that open the doorway to the whole song."

Earle laughs. The sound carries a memory of humid, wild nights.

"So, ya got some confused kid who probably tripped too much acid and is feeding ya his jive."

"Fuck no," I shake my head. "Jude's as clean as a whistle. You and me Earle, we got what he wants so bad."

"Which is?"

"Home, we know where we come from. It's in our DNA. We can't forget that." I scratch at my nose to stop any mistimed tears. "I miss it. I miss bein' home."

"Jesus, Kurt. Call yer mama, tell her ya love her and let's get back to what's also in our DNA which is the fuckin' music."

I can clearly see the past like a stage when the lights are all but turned off.

"It's your music now, my friend."

Earle's chair tumbles over when he stands to face me.

"You sayin' yer quitin'? You're leaving us, yer band...yer friends?"

"I need a break; a clean one. I could come back. Maybe y'all will want me then, maybe not. That will be up to you and the boys if and when the time comes."

Earle stands his full six feet. His brown eyes could burn a hole through my T-Shirt.

"And meantime you'll be doin' what...rolling in the hey with Frenchie until ya get board of him too?"

"Fuck you, Earle! I'll call ya from Georgia. Best we settle up the business end of things from a distance."

"Kurt...Kurt?"

A faint touch to my shoulder shakes me back into consciousness. The papers with scribbled lyrics and notes are stuck to one side of my face.

"What?" My mouth tastes like I've been chewing on my hair. "Jude?"

"Why are you awake far into the night?"

I crack my elbows and back on my way into a sitting position.

"What time is it? Did I wake ya? Are you O.K.?"

"Two in the morning, no you did not, and yes I am, but I am concerned for you."

"Fuck Jude, don't do that."

His voice is light with a smile I can't see, but know is there.

"Do what?"

"Act all awake and aware and wiseass when I'm three sheets to the wind."

"Should I return to bed and wait additional hours to be wiseass?"

Before I'm entirely awake, I slide back my chair, almost taking out Julien's legs. He's wondering what the hell I'm doin' is my guess. That's when I grab him by the arms and kiss him. I've been living with this beautiful man-child for almost a year and I haven't so much as gone further than hugging him. It's a modest kiss by my standards; closed mouths, but slow, and experimental. He is the first to gradually pull away.

"Kurt?"

He holds my eyes with his silently asking for a reason.

"Julien," I'm suddenly hesitant to touch him until I can ask, "will you come home...to Georgia that is, with me?"

Delicate fingers stroke my cheek and a few days' worth of stubble. I could melt into a mass of tepid bathwater for him to sink into. Our wet lips connect again. His open mouth hungrily searches mine. It's as if I'm feeding him light and warmth.

Whispered words are delivered into my ear.

"I will come to Georgia with you, Kurt."

Afraid that this is a dream or that I'll spoke him like a timid foal, I run my lips over his face, kissing his nose, eyelids, even the spirals of dark hair. I'm being greedy. If this is the one and only time I will have this incredible pleasure, I want all I can get.

But, it isn't right to overwhelm him with my desire if he doesn't understand.

"Jude," I barely have breath enough to speak. "I don't want to take ya away from your search." I smooth a patch of curls from his forehead. "I just wanted ya to know that I'm not tryin' to run away."

This has got to be the best damn dream I can recall. He presses his body against mine making the next kiss unbearably strong.

"I am certain now."

His accent sends chills throughout my body. Deep in my center grows an unfamiliar fire.

"Certain of what?"

"You and I are connected. There can be no search for me, if we are apart."

I take his hand leading him through the short hallway to my bed.

"You can have anything of mine."

I undress myself in front of his fiery blue eyes.

"You can have me."


	5. Chapter 5

**Julien**

The pronounced shadows of tress transform the far wall into a nocturnal canvas. Black branches shake protesting the wind intent upon moving everything in its path. The wind is an indifferent master. Could God have created a force determined on bending the will of His creatures? Am I not like the petulant wind?

The question is sobering, stepping closer to the mirror to discern my reflection. The crescent moon is my light source. My hair is uncharacteristically mussed by Kurt's wandering hands; boy-like body exposed when Kurt seductively removed my shirt. This unmarred chest and milk white arms belong to the body of a cloistered man, not one who led a laborious life with duties that strengthened his muscles. Perhaps I was a sickly person and some kind of terrible fever has affected my memory?

But, a reaction, possibly attached to a memory surfaced the moment I found myself lay bare to Kurt. There was no conscious thought connected to my quick and sudden wrenching away from him. He froze before me. My gesture no doubt ridiculed him to the point of being aware of his nakedness.

"Please stop."

My feet moved backwards on the soft carpet. The moonlight illuminated Kurt's lithe body speckled by sparse patches of pale hair.

His arms folded like a sparrow's wings in a protective gesture.

"I…I'm sorry." He stammered. "I thought-"

"I understand."

I completely understood his reaction, but not mine. I was desperate not to shame him further.

Kurt's long eyelashes fluttered.

"Then…Why?"

This sweet, sorrowful, generous man had done nothing to hurt me, and yet, I wanted to be alone.

"I am not certain."

Kurt hurriedly pulled on his blue jeans.

"Hey, you don't owe me a why. It's my fault. I took this in a totally wrong direction."

The statement aroused an incredible mixture of emotions potent enough to set my head spinning.

"What is _this?_ "

I asked.

He drew the gold mane from under his shirt collar. The tresses tumbled gracefully down to the middle of his back. Kurt was a sacred creature in that moment; a mournful, sleepy-eyed angel despairing at the spineless nature of man.

"I don't have an answer to that, Julien. I'm real sorry if I frightened ya." He looked directly into my eyes. "I hope I didn't break your trust."

The invisible ship that carried me to this time and place, to this extraordinary man swung wide. It was incongruous to wish for solitude, but also fear losing Kurt forever.

"No."

I whispered. My eyes were on the twisting trees.

"Why did ya respond to me the way ya did in the kitchen, and…in here?"

I wondered why he could not hear the branches breaking, the ship splintering apart as it hit unseen rocks, the swift release of a sharp blade into flesh and bone.

"Forget it," Kurt waved his hand. "I said ya don't owe me an explanation." He snatched a pack of cigarettes from the night table. "Seems to me that I need to go, and you need to stay."

 _Do not move._

The words were trapped inside. Kurt did not abandon me, but sat on the edge of the bed. A flash of orange light illuminated his profile. When the light extinguished, Kurt floated within the smoke rising upwards. He had a way of hiding inside things. Kurt could enjoin himself with smoke, curl into the swirls of blue in a painting, or become the corner of two intersecting walls. It was self-protection and alchemy.

I began to realize that Kurt's spirit diminished while the terrible noise expanded around my head. I could not see him and he could not hear me.

I tried to reach him over the din in my ears.

"Kurt, I do believe we are connected. I...I need time to learn how and why. If we make love I fear-"

It was no use. The cigarette was carelessly dropped into a cup sitting next to the bed. Kurt sighed and rose up. A vital part of me was contained in the breath of his exhale. I did not possess the ability to explain. It did not matter. He was gone; locked unto himself, yet I was somehow conjoined with him in that sacred space.


	6. Chapter 6

**Kurt**

The sun's giving the city streets a relentless beat down. Heat shimmers like pulverized diamonds rising up from scorched tar. People walk quickly, averting their sweaty faces from one another. Clothes are wet by the strain of movement. The pedestrians dodge, bob and weave some even shoving to move forward. I'm watching a slow motion hundred yard dash down the sidewalk of 10the Avenue. What the hell's the reason for this grunting, sticky race? What's the prize? Why be outside if ya can't appreciate the environment?

This is New York in the heat. I steady a foot against the brick building behind me. I'm a world away from a Georgia spring. I'm not usually a sentimental southerner, but, time and circumstance have made me hate this city. I'm holding a metaphorical rotten apple in one hand and a sweet, ripe peach in the other.

Sure, Macon sometimes gets hot in early spring. But we got Cherry blossom tress that outshine and outnumber that of our Nation's capital. People are lured from their homes by the faintest scent of fruity perfume drifting into open windows. Once outdoors y'all won't stay hot! In my mind's eye I see Suggy Eugene and his shiny, white and silver I-talian ice cart. When Eugene's calloused hand lifted the lid, my mouth would water from the fantastic smells of orange, lemon and lime. A cold blast of smoking air struck my red cheeks when I leaned in to get a closer look at the tropical scented merchandise. Folks sit on their front porches sippin' whiskey, or spiked lemonade. It's a major faux pas not to at least give a passer-by a nod, or "Afternoon, friend."

That's if a person has the privilege of being born white. The South is also infamous for bigotry and the worst sense of entitlement because of skin color. I have to admit that was my greatest motive. I wanted to flip off the whole friggin' buzzing hive of racists and travel north. But, after meeting Jude, maybe it's my place to take a stand and fight that ugly shit and not run from it.

Jude... The reason I'm leaning against this unnamed bar at 2PM on a Sunday. Hell, I might as well go on through the graffiti covered metal door and park myself for a bit. Local corner bars like this dark, little hovel are usually the favorite of the resident, non-affluent natives. Ain't no one gonna mind my faded jeans, turquoise belt buckle and Iggy Pop T-shirt.

It's cooler and darker inside than I expected. I'm just about to conclude the place is closed when I see a bare lightbulb hanging over a table in the back. Three men are hunched over studying hands of playing cards and throwing back what I'm sure ain't lemonade in their tumblers. Behind me is an empty table with two vinyl covered chairs. Beyond the table is an odd place for a small stage on raised on a platform. I'm guessing the beat-up lookin' piano hasn't been properly tuned since I smoked I first smoked peyote in Junior high.

That reminds me…my hand digs into the back pocket of denim to produce a crushed pack of cigarettes. I hope this cave has a cig machine. I only have two cancer sticks left. Sitting down my eye catches the strangest sight. Stage left is a table with two women I'd put in their 60s. They are dressed almost identically. The blonde with the bouffant is wearing a sleeveless sheer blouse with silver sequins covering the front. Her knee length skirt is also white as is her high heeled shoes. She's wearing the request tan nylons of her age group.

Blondie's companion has her gray hair in a low bun at the nap of her neck. Her blouse is sheer, white, but no sequins. Instead a huge bow is tied above her bust line. High enough so no cleavage is showing. She matches her companion in skirt, shoes and stockings. Both women's faces are made up, but modest like, _for Sunday church_ as my mamma would say. Their matching pink lips inhale on long cigarettes while engaged in some quiet chit-chat barely takin' notice of the rude intruder eyeing them up.

"Hi there!"

I'm still fixed on the ladies. I don't notice the cute, petite waitress who's suddenly at my side.

"That's Jane and Bets." The dark haired waitress leans in. "They come in every Sunday." Her voice takes on a stern warning. "They don't like to be hassled."

My face flushes.

"Oh, I…I wasn't-"

"Didn't say ya were," she takes out a pen and pad to write on. "They're _together_ , ya see. And if you don't like it, ya might as well pick up and go now, 'cause _we_ don't mind."

If only this little fireball knew! I laugh and make like I'm coughing into a closed fist.

"Hey, I'm not here to hassle anyone. Live and let live is my motto."

"And smoking and drinking is O.K. by you too."

She winks a soft brown eye. Damn! She's got short hair, curly as Jude's. Can't I go anywhere and not be reminded of him?

I offer up my best sleepy eyes and half-grin.

"I look pretty easy to ya, do I?"

"I couldn't say, but you do sound every bit like Kurt Ahote."

"What?" I slouch in my chair. "I remind ya of that tone deaf redneck?"

"Don't talk that way about a man I love."

"I won't argue with that either. I'll take all the love I can get."

She smiles.

"What will you have for a drink?"

"Y'all have any Wild Turkey?"

"If we didn't, I'd jog out to the closet liquor store and buy some."

She's a keeper; smart and not too serious.

"What' yer name, little sister?"

"Jessica."

She curtseys with a mischievous grin.

"Well Jessica, It's too damn hot to be runnin' anywhere. I'll take whatever bourbon ya got."

The pad and paper go back into her pocket. From another she extracts a brand new pack of smokes and slides them across the table to me.

"On the house."

"Hey, ya don't have to do that!" Her generosity is more like I'm taking advantage of a kid. "I'm not destitute yet."

"Let me give what I can as a thank you for your music."

"That shit's free."

"Not when it comes from your soul."

Little sister's heading to the bar before I can register a reply to her mysterious comment _. My soul?_ That's something I've not given consideration to. I suppose if I did, I might get a little weak in the knees. Besides, Jude does enough soul searching for the both of us!

I feel eyes on me as I shake out one of the last two cigs from the pack. While lighting up, I spot Jane and Bets checking me out. Fair play to ya, ladies. They each smile and nod. My face flushes again, embarrassed that I may have shown disrespect with my earlier gawking.

"I managed to capture a little turkey for you."

Jessica is placing a half-full glass of amber liquid on my table, followed by the half-full bottle!

"You're real certain I'm needin' to drown my sorrows."

She wrinkles a pug nose.

"No, this is me taking care of you."

What a bizarre choice of words. _Take care of me?_ This little chickadee?

"Seriously, ya don't owe me nothin' for-"

"Oh, but I do!" Her brown eyes dance. "It was your music that was playing on the car radio when I had the accident."

"Jesus," I lower the glass that was almost to my lips. "You were in a car accident?"

"Uh huh," She nods. "It was a pretty bad one too. "Yours's was the last voice I heard. You were like…" She stares off dreamily. "Like an angel."

"I'm real sorry," now I need to take a generous swig. "I'm glad to see ya in one piece."

"I'm not so unique." Jessica glances over her shoulder. "We all have similar stories."

I'm enjoying her company and the burn of the bourbon.

"What about those gents playing cards? Do ya know their story?"

"Sure, they were soldiers. They stormed the beaches of Normandy."

"That is impressive." The liquor provides the impudence I wouldn't normally have to ask, "And what about Miss Jane and Miss Bets?"

Jessica's sunny disposition is gone in the blink of an eye. Before I can tell her to forget I asked she's providing an answer.

"Their families abandoned them when their relationship was discovered."

Down goes drink number three.

"That's really shitty."

"They ended up on the streets eating out of restaurant garbage cans."

My heavy eyes tear up imagining those two lovely ladies being subjected to the special kind of hell only families can inflict.

"Jessica, can I ask ya for one more favor?"

"Sure, you haven't used up all your wishes just yet."

"Please give Miss Jane and Miss Bets a bottle of whatever is their poison of choice."

Inside the crinkled pack of cigs is a $50 bill I've been saving for emergencies. I take it out and hand it to the curly-haired Jessica.

"It's on me, but don't tell them O.K."

Jessica blinks in confusion.

"Why not? They will ask."

"Then tell them it's from a secret admirer."

I cover my mouth when a burp crosses my lips.

"Alright," the little pug nose crinkles again. "But, I'm not letting you buy drinks for the house. If you're feeling particularly altruistic, step up to the piano over there."

I snicker.

"It's _because_ I'm feelin' Al…Alter…Alawish… I ain't playin'!'"

"You stay put."

Jessica places a soft hand on my shoulder. She smells nice, like how I would imagine a mermaid to smell.

"O.K. Jess!" I salute her. "I'm gonna stay here and drink…er… _think_ on my soul."

"Now you've got the idea."

Her brown eyes turn an intense shade of green. That calls for drink number three, or is it four? Ah hell! Who's counting? Somehow in the span of ten minutes the place is filling up; almost every table is full. There are single hippies like me standing round in a circle rapping, a white man and a black woman at another table hold hands, next to them is a family of five; mom, dad, two girls and a boy. The parents watch contentedly as the kids color with crayons on the paper placements.

I use the back of my hand to rub at my bleary eyes. What the hell was the name of this joint? The door opens and a blast of heat, light and noise enter like Gabriel blowin' his horn. I don't remember conjuring Julien, but here he is standing at my side, lookin' mighty pissed. That makes me laugh.

"Hey Jude!" I shove the nearly empty bottle, "you're just in time to drink with me."

"I am more than late by your appearance."

"Ssss…Shit Jude," I polish off another glass and take back the bottle to pour. "If you're gonna be all judgy, y'all can flitter on your way."

His eyes are blue crystal with his icy stare on me. His perfectly shaped ass lowers into the other chair.

"Kurt, it is time. You told to me you wished to visit your Georgia home."

"What's your rush, _Frenchie?_ I raise my glass to him. "Ya play cat and mouse with me for a year, now ya wanna kick me outta my own house?

I snap a finger in the air.

"That's a damn good song lyric. I gotta write that down."

"Please Kurt, let us both return to your home. We must speak."

I burp openly just as Jessica sidles up.

"S'cuse me, little sister. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Why have you come here?"

She snaps at Julien. I dig it.

"Yeah Jude," I chime in. "What's your deal poopie party head?"

Jessica and Julien exchange a charged glance.

"Kurt has no business here."

Julien informs my cute, little waitress.

"Neither do you."

"Hey, hey…" I grab Jessica's hand. "Ma, Pa, don't fight. Kurt is a grown ass man. He can take care of hiself."

"You're just beginning to remember how harsh the judgement of man can be." Jessica is speaking directly to Jude. "Kurt already knows. He deserves a respite."

These two are freaking me out.

"Kurt deserves another drink!"

While the glass makes it way to my lips, something flies up taking the drink with it splashing booze onto the floor. I'm hazier than I thought. I pour again and again the glass is airborne before it reaches my lips. This time I see Jude's hand on its way back down to the table.

"The fuck, Jude?"

"You wish to try for three?"

"Oh man, Julien! If I was sober right now, you'd…you'd be-"

"Yes, clearly I am to face a serious reckoning."

He's yanking the chair from under my ass! I reach out helplessly for Jessica's help, but she's too busy studying the alcohol stained floor. I can't stand on my own. I have to let Jude manhandle me towards the door. No one else in the place seems the least bit disturbed by this scene. Even Jane and Bets have returned to hushed conversation.

"You have already faced your reckoning, Julien."

What the hell does Jessica mean by that? How and when did she meet Jude?

"The name may change, but, the soul remains the same," she continues. "You may not like the memories."

THE FUCK?


	7. Chapter 7

**Julien**

"Pardon?"

Kurt lethargically throws a leg over the side of the couch. A bare foot dangles over the edge. He is not listening. But, I too am losing my concentration. It is ironic that what distracts me is the very point I am trying to make.

"May I shut off the box?"

I nod to the _idiot box_ as Kurt refers to it. His glassy eyes stare at the black and white screen, but his attention is somewhere outside this room.

"Knock yourself out, babe."

Now an arm is carelessly tossed behind his head, taking a sip of amber liquid from a tall glass. A dirty ashtray half-full of cigarettes sits next to him and signals that I am not welcome. Kurt is vaguely aware of his incredible beauty. It stuns me. Other people-complete strangers are the reminders to Kurt of his magnetism. Women wish to be near him, touch him, drink him in like an exotic potion. A feminine hand softly placed on his arm comes with the hope to detain the blonde prince for a moment. Some men harbor the same hunger for Kurt as the women. Others of the male sex offer beer, cigarettes, an invitation to an impromptu musical performance. Kurt responds with the same enthusiasm and decency for both of the sexes.

I am well aware that Kurt is not immune to the siren of sexual coupling. He does not have to brag, or relay previous experiences. The weekly arrival of perfume scented cards, photos of a hedonistic night of pleasure reflected in the semi-conscious grins of the subjects, bouquets of flowers…After a year, no special delivery would surprise me.

"Well…"

Kurt sighs feathering back layers of soft pale hair from his face. The dark blue denim trousers he wears are like a second skin. A thick, black leather belt with silver studs is secured low on his hips. Kurt's shirt is untucked and unbuttoned to expose a perfectly flat stomach with an appealing patch of gold hair at the center.

Men have never enticed me physically. The only activity I wanted to engage in was the debate of lofty subjects. I desired to learn from other men the languages, scientific theories and philosophies of which I was lacking. This much is embedded not only in my memory, but my very marrow. There is no comparison to the incredible attraction I possess towards Kurt. The desire exists despite my mental objections because it is simple nature. I have fallen in love with him. A laugh escapes my lips. I cannot remember who I was, what other life or lives I have led, but I easily recognize love in this formidable, uninhibited, tender man.

 _"What?"_

He is slightly irritated. The blue of Kurt's eyes flashing at me matches a sky before a magnificent storm.

"I am attempting to explain to you, but you seem more interested in-"

"Balls, Jude," he lazily lights another cigarette. It bounces between his full lips as he speaks. "You've been worryin' around here like an ole mother hen all afternoon." He quickly inhales then blows perfect circles of smoke at me. "Ya got somethin' to say, out with it, speak plain, or stand on back."

"It must be such a relief to _speak plain_." The undefinable arousal flutters within my stomach. "But, I have not the language or the worldly knowledge of such discourse."

"Shit," Kurt's smile curls around the cigarette. "That's about as plain as String theory."

"What do you wish from me, Kurt? You are still angry about yesterday, I know this."

"Jude, ya outta know I don't hold onto day old anger. There are enough happenings today for me to get pissed about if I so choose."

"Happenings related to me."

"No," he stubs out his smoke. "God damn, Jude. You ain't the center of the universe."

"I did not intend to imply that I am."

"Did it piss me off no end your storming into the bar? Yeah. Did ya test my patience when ya smacked not one, but two perfectly fine drinks from my hand?"

"Kurt-"

His raised fingers delineate questions.

"Should I have been more tolerant when ya threatened to go for a third and insulted a sweet little thing before shoving me on my merry way?"

He lies back exposing his stomach and the flesh that distracts me to madness.

"Julien," Kurt's back arches against the smooth leather of the couch. "I should be more patient with you."

"Not possible," I divert my glance to the red tapestry on the far wall. "How can I expect you to understand the things that I myself do not."

"Well, now you're hittin' on the definition of a relationship."

"How is this?"

"I'm talkin' about why I play music. No one who feels love or pain or the thousand other experiences we all have can expect another to easily understand. You and me are set in this room together, but might be worlds away as far as what we're feeling."

"And the music?"

"It tells folks, here's what I've experienced; I bet y'all have done the same at one time or another. Let's kick back and forget about the shitty stuff for an hour or two. Let's everyone be on the same page for this space of time."

Kurt lingers on the letter _I_ for a brief second longer than the others in words such as, _time_ and _mine_. I want to crawl inside those _I_ words. They are a warm bed of sound. They are music.

I am drowsy, but I must provide my explanation as best as I am able.

"May I sit, please?"

I'm looking at the ashtray to Kurt's right.

"Huh?" His eyes follow mine. He quickly removes the object. "Yeah, of course."

Now that I am seated the scent of smoke, mint and whiskey tempt me to move closer to the source of the alluring mix.

Where do I begin? I will my mind to clear itself of distractions.

"I entered the very same bar as you occupied yesterday."

"Yeah, we established your love of pub hijinks."

He does not comprehend the seriousness of my admission. I must be patient.

"It was when I first found myself in this new…" I search for the right words. "It was during the time before we became acquainted." I too spoke with Jessica."

Kurt furrows his brow.

"Why didn't ya tell me?"

"There was not a reason to tell until yesterday."

"But, you talked to Jessica? What did she say to you?"

My laugh is ironic at the remembrance.

"I was not welcomed as you were. I stumbled in from the street, hungry, thirsty, in total confusion."

Kurt shakes his knotted hair.

"I can't believe that same girl would not care for you kindly."

"It was not her fault. She had to deliver a message to me."

Kurt's head snaps back towards my face.

"A _message_? From who?"

"I did not find out. Jessica said that every person in the bar had walked through the fire. I could not sit among them because I had yet to do so."

"Walk through the fire? Is that referencing a metaphor or Johnny Cash?"

Exhaustion dulls my mind. Facts and emotions easily twist together.

"Kurt," I grab for his hand. "The time when we kissed-"

"Jesus Jude, I got the message. Wait, you think that kissing me was some kinda…" His innocent expression grimaces with pain. "Hold up! Y'all think that I'm some kind of damnation for you? Like if ya should get with me, you'd be facing the fires of hell?"

"No," I squeeze his hand. "You misunderstand."

He ignores my attempt at reassurance.

"I'm sure I've been a lousy lay at times, but a one way ticket to the _deep south_ , I don't think I've ever been accused of that before."

"I speak plain as I am able. The kiss was a prelude to heaven for me. To be with you in such a way would be worth my soul-"

"No! See now that's where ya would be wrong."

"Kurt, shut up and let me speak!"

My words hit him like a rock to the head.

"I understand from Jessica I must discover something very particular that will deliver me, or more clearly, deliver the person who now shares my soul. I cannot fail in saving another. How do I deserve this life? What kind of man makes me if I give in to the overpowering love and desire I have for you, while someone else may be suffering terribly?"

Kurt pulls his knees to his chest. His sad eyes drift over an apartment he would know blindfolded. I have lost the breath for speech. The impact of my explanation silences me. My head succumbs to the soft leather of the couch.

He is leaving. Kurt is seated so close to me our legs touch, but he is a snuffed out candle. The light and the energy of the room follow when he departs. An invisible force has been summoned to protect him. This shield is palpable. I can no longer feel _him_ , breathe in his scent. He is right here, yet he is already gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Kurt**

I must have been on autopilot to get where I am now on the back porch. The night breeze sucked down my throat is comparable to a mint julip in July. I've been told many times that I tune out of conversations and not just the ones that aren't goin' my way. The dissimilarly pitched voices coming at me in ill tuned harmonies are too much to bear.

"Air," he speaks over my shoulder. "I possess terrible impression that once in my life, air was the only thing I wished for, but was denied."

"It's not like air is a luxury, Jude." I contemplate lighting a cigarette to pollute this tight space he and I share. "Yer either breathin', or yer dead."

"Nothing so simple in this, or any world."

Without seeing I know his lips curve into an ironic smile.

"I think ya like to make things more complicated than they are."

"Do I?"

There is a definite excitement in his voice.

"Color me surprised." I reach for the semi-crushed pack in my pocket. "Y'all enjoy mischief."

"That is Loki."

He speaks while coming out of the shadow of my shoulder. I look to his face. The moonlight tinges his curling black hair the palest blue. These are the times I'm shaken right down to my possibly damned soul. Julien must be a spirit, an alien, maybe a piece of my ever crumbling imagination.

"Loki," I swallow past a lump of anxiety sitting in my throat. "Is that French?"

"Ha! Ha!"

God damn, but his eyes glisten with pleasure. I draw the cigarette to my lips, battling the breeze from blowing out my match.

"I say somethin' funny, Jude?"

He shakes his head giving me a sympathetic or sarcastic smile. I can't tell the difference in the half-light.

"You do not know of the god of mischief?"

The fuck? I just want to be left alone, not grilled on gods by the French man-child! I snap my hips forward towards the wood railing.

"Is he from _Georgia?"_

"He is Norse, as in a people and ancient mythology.

"Oh, well, that was my second guess."

Julien uses the porch railing as a look out; a telescope into the mysteries of the dark night; a distinctly different world from day. He folds his hands together.

"The elder priests throw _evil_ books into fire. Such men lived and died by the creed of one God. Fire meant eternal suffering. How stupid and close of mind."

"Closed minded," I correct his English. "What evil priests, Jude? Are ya talkin' about your past?"

He ignores the question.

"You see in Loki there are all the contradictions of humanity. He is fire, sometimes air, self-assured, volatile and vulnerable."

"How do ya know all this?"

Jude's stare is fixed on the closet constellation, Leo, or is that Virgo? I'm neither an astrologer nor an astronomer. I do take some pride in knowing more about the sky than the average dude my age.

"I…I simply do."

"So apparently you perused Norse mythology at some point and time in your… _existence._ "

He nods.

"Oui. But, it was forbidden to read of pagan gods and goddess."

"I suppose so if ya were a priest," a long trail of cigarette ash falls to the ground. I don't want to, but I gotta ask. "Were _you_ a priest, Jude? Is that what yer tellin' me?"

His eyes are pure. I mean like no lie could exist in the sea of blue mourning.

"Perhaps," he claps his hands tighter. His bony fingers are as pale as the moon. "Perhaps, I was like Loki, playing at a priest. I enjoy to imagine that I created chaos in the established order of my time."

"Why?"

Drops of tears gather over his full lips.

"It needed to be done."


	9. Chapter 9

**Julien**

In a state of half-sleep I roll over onto my side. A pointed pain pierces my jaw jolting me fully awake. Sweat streaming down my chest and spine quickly goes cold. Bumps rise one by one on my sticky flesh. Fingers tentatively explore where the pain was most intense, but it has vanished.

A gust of air rushes up beneath me while gravity disappears. I am falling with nothing to grab onto until my feet hit the floor without a sound. My breathing stops, then resumes with a grateful, greedy intake of air. Blinking my eyes wholly open I see that I am standing on one side of a rust-coated, barred, cage.

This dark place lit only by a few low burning candles reeks of fear, suffering and death. The other side of the cage is a cell with a rickety old cot, small wooden table with chair and incredibly, chains secured to the floor! From the corner of my eye I glimpse movement from the opposite side of the cell; it comes with a slight groan.

I call out wondering what poor creature could be left to endure this awful place.

"Hello?"

The slight form advances.

"Have you come to give me comfort then, brother, or should I say, _Father?"_

I do not recognize the deep, masculine voice, or the extremely thin, bedraggled man standing inches away. He is wearing a wrinkled green shirt with long sleeves and matching trousers. Jet black hair falls to one side of his face and over his shoulders in tangles. His bare feet are gashed and blood stained.

"I…I do not know who you are, or why I am here."

He smiles from behind the bars with eyes as bright blue and hard as sapphire. The grin is more of bemused satisfaction as he softly laughs.

"You are a sinner." He folds his arms across his chest. "And I am your mirror."

My body twitches with nervous energy. The pale young man and his mocking grin are more foreboding than this prison we occupy.

"You don't wish to see the result of your actions." He nods at me in distain. "You would rather play the fool than face your reckoning."

"I…I…"

"Stop with your idiotic stuttering!"

His authoritative shout weakens me to the core.

"Where I come from we faced Ragnarok on our feet, fully prepared to do battle and destroy our own world if necessary."

"Ragnarok." The word swims around in my foggy brain, "the doom of the gods."

" _Some_ gods."

His otherworldly eyes shine.

"The devastation you caused is quite impressive. Although my plan of vengeance would never have included taking my own life; where is the glory in that?"

"You must be mad. I have no need for vengeance."

"Not any more you don't."

This... _man_ is disturbingly charming in his menacing attitude.

"You made good on your word."

He leans his ghostly face between the bars.

"I like a man who doesn't make idle threats."

"I do not make any kind of threats, sir, I am-"

"What? _A lover?_ _A priest?_ "

He taunts me.

"Your actions indicate that you are neither."

His blueish lips almost kiss the corroded bars as he whispers.

"You are no one."

"Why..."

My mind is a labyrinth of passageways. I don't know if the images I see are real or imagined.

"You see her, don't you?"

"I…see…a man." A bit of confidence surges through me. Searching through the impressions I recognize only one. "I see a man with long blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Ach!"

My companion slams his fist on the bars.

"You remain tethered to your fear."

His sardonic grin dispels my confidence.

"Well, far be it from me to keep the truth from you."

Long, cold fingers fold over mine.

"I told you. I am your mirror."

Terror claims every part of my being. I know this man is planning something awful for me.

" _Please,_ "

My plea is pathetically weak as am I.

"Take your seat among the gods, Monsieur Berthet."

He squeezes my hands. He may as well be extracting the very breath from my lungs. I close my eyes, prepared-praying to lose consciousness. Tears steam down my cheeks. The terrible pain in my jaw has returned. My hands and feet are numb. I look down in horror at the chains shackling my limbs. I'm on the other side of the cell! I am the prisoner!

"My work takes me far afield at times."

He speaks to me from the place I once stood. He is gloriously attired. His raven hair now covered by a golden helmet with horns turned upward on either side. He is dressed like a prince; elegant forest green trousers tucked into high black boots. At the neck is a yellow crescent moon. His overcoat also deep green is accented with brightly colored gold interwoven into the sleeves.

He carries a tall staff like a scepter. He is magnificently handsome bearing both the expression of a sad little boy and an angry king. The sapphire eyes stare down at me.

"Know this; there is no redemption without recognition."

"I do not know!" I find a spark of power within my desperation. "I do not know what I am to recognize!"

"Yes, you do. You know enough to evade the one dwelling you will find answers."

"Wha..."

"Don't disappoint me." The shining staff points towards my chest. "I interceded on your behalf."

"Me…Why?"

The genuine kindness and pity in his eyes brings tears to mine.

"Someone once did the same for me. None of us live for eternity. Not even the gods. Don't disappoint me."


	10. Chapter 10 Kurt

**Kurt**

If I've done this once, I've done it one hundred and one times. I'm at a bar, someone asks me to step up to the piano and give a song or two, next thing ya know, I've had a drink, or two, or five! This is followed by my waking up in some unfamiliar bed, with a warm, shapely body asleep next to me. Sometimes I may even remember her name. I do this time, because I've already gone through steps one, two and three of the evening, but, I'm stuck, like a stick in swamp at step four.

"Is it me?"

The cute little brunette clutches the flowered sheet to her chest. The entire room looks like a ruffled pink elephant exploded. Pink ruffled curtains, a freaky looking china doll with blood red lips and ruffled pink dress, matching bonnet to boot is staring at me from a pink and white bureau. I can't remember, but I wager, as my tired eyes set on the brunette that she was wearing something pink and ruffley last night. Her question induces guilt.

"Don't be so quick to take the blame, Cheryl."

"Well, at least you know my name after half-dozen bourbons."

I scratch my matted hair.

"Was it really that many?"

She half-smiles.

"It was enough to entice you into coming home with me, but, not enough to-"

"It's not you." I stroke the ladybug tattoo on her right shoulder. "I've been out of sorts for awhile. I'm sure my drunken escape had everything to do with escape."

 _"Escape?"_

Her brown eyes smudged with day old mascara doubt me.

"But, your playing tonight at the bar was more than groovy. It can't be the music you're trying to run from."

"No," I try nonchalantly to look for my jeans. I don't see them on the pink shag carpet. "Music isn't the problem. And thank ya for sayin' so about my playing."

She tosses me a lump of blue from a sea of printed pink flowers on her side of the bed.

"You're welcome."

I hug the denim close. It smells like stale smoke and liquor.

"I sure am sorry."

"Don't be. I imagine you get pretty tired of drunken sex. Maybe tonight was one of those nights."

"C'mon now,"

I half-turn for a moment to slide into my jeans. I'm about to say something stupid like I remember every lady I've shared a bed with, or, it's not just sex…but that would be even more insulting to Cheryl than my not consummating our encounter.

She speaks for me.

"Don't say we can try again some other time."

"I wish I could. I really do. I know I've been a jackass tonight…"

A fluffy bathrobe consumes her petit body.

"Well, you don't owe me anything."

She's holding the door open.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Kurt."

I stop my procession from the bed.

"Who says I'm lookin' for anything?"

"Every inch of your beautiful, perfect body is screaming it. You want to be somewhere else. Maybe it's even a _someone_ else. Either way, I hope you find it, or her."

I palm my jacket from the chair and decide Cheryl would not be happy with a kiss goodbye. I look her straight in the eyes.

"You seem fairly intuitive. If I do find…whatever, solve the puzzle, I have a feelin' you'll know."

"You always say it in the music, Kurt. That's why all the girls love you."

The streets are a laid back kind of quiet. While the sun is only an embryo of incandescent color on the horizon, people are still indoors. I trudge towards the east and my shitty apartment. An abysmal pit of sadness opens in my gut. This must be the _thing_ Cheryl referred to that has me so jammed up. The closer I come to my street, and Julien, the more pain in my gut.

The key slides into the lock and immediately colors start to form inside my head. Since I was a little boy, I could see music. Every song was made up of a _kaleidoscope_ of colors. When I tried to explain to my mama the dark shades of a Muddy Waters tune, or the fiery reds of Jerry Lee Lewis, mama wigged out. So, I reserved my Crayola observations for my journal. Then, as a teen when I was sure my musical comrades would dig what I was seeing, they laughed it off as an especially good acid trip.

I wouldn't have the balls to claim I was a sane person, but seeing colors while the music and words form simultaneously doesn't make me Norman Bates either! I let myself in. I've got half of what I want to say to Julien unfurling in my head like some kind of National flag.

I'm startled to find him sitting at the kitchen table. I wouldn't have seen him at all if not for the fluorescent light above the stove. My mouth is a bag of cotton balls. I say nothing as I go for a pitcher of water from the fridge, drinking sans glass.

"You have not left for so long before," Julien speaks to the room. "I think perhaps you return to Georgia."

I put the pitcher on the counter and rub my damp mouth with a shirtsleeve.

"Time got away from me. I'm sorry if I worried you."

His huge blue eyes almost swallow me.

"But, I do, you."

"You do me what?"

"I do worry you. This is heart of the matter."

"What matter?"

I pad myself down for a cig. This Abbot and Costello-esque exchange is making me dizzy.

"Us, you and I."

He's so damn certain of something; meanwhile my multicolored statement remains unfinished in my head. I light up and lean against the counter.

"Kurt, you are troubled by my presence-"

"Don't put colors, er…uh, words in my mouth."

"I do not propose you are unkind. You are opposite, generous and caring."

I blow out a few rings of smoke.

"Oh yeah? Then why would ya say you trouble me?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't know..." I circle the table. "Look, Jude, I'm tired, hung over and I don't wanna play guessing games. Could ya say what ya mean plainly, like I was a dumbass Southerner."

"You insult yourself,"

He's shaking those black coils of hair.

"This is…"He breaks off apparently to take up a new line of reasoning. "You are man who enjoys freedom. You are gifted. This brings people to you, and you enjoy the company of women."

"Ya lost me after enjoying my freedom."

"I too am a man," he furrows those glorious dark eyebrows, "at least I believe I was and am a man who enjoys the company of women."

I study my nicotine stained fingers.

"Are you asking me to wear make-up and put on a dress?"

"Mock me if you wish. I attempt to explain I understand why you want to leave."

"Because you're sure I dig chicks and pretty sure you do?"

"More than this."

Shit! Ribbons of purple bubble up as if from a lava lamp behind my eyes; I hear the lyrics to an as yet known song.

 _It would take much more than this to break a love so long in the making._

"Kurt?"

Julien's voice is on the edge of my consciousness. Keep talkin' babe, maybe the music will show me what ya mean.

"I hide myself with you because it is easy. I do not have to think about great questions I was sent here to answer. Now, I am more complicated by my deep feelings for you. These scare, excite and confuse me."

I close my eyes letting the cig fall into the sink. My entire body is given over to the blending of sounds and words.

 _It would take much more than talk or dreams, to shake so strong a foundation, more than this._

The disconcerting sound of Julien shoving his chair away from the table rips apart my vision like a bomb blast.

"And now I assume I am too much for you." his hands flail about. "Why you given such shoes to walk in, I do not know. But, it is not fair."

"Jesus, Julien, really?"

The colors and words jell, not into a song but a certainty so strong it has replaced the sorrow in my center.

"Who made you believe this about yourself?"

"Believe what?"

"You're whole speech just now. You wanted to tell me you ain't worth a good goddamn, before I could. Someone chased you away before."

"You cannot know this, if I do not."

"The hell I can't! I lived it myself. Take this one grain of truth from me. I don't plain on givin' ya yer walkin' papers-"

"But you love women."

"I love the female form…What?" I pound the table in frustration. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You cannot love me," he lowers his head, "or my form. It is unnatural."

I give him a hard stare.

"Oh, I see. Ya know, I never took ya for a big, fat bigot, Jude."

"I do not know this word."

"I stopped by a comic book shop earlier last night. That Loco god-"

 _"Loki"_

He softly corrects.

Yeah, you left out the part where _Loki_ is bi-sexual. He can be a man or a woman, ergo, he has sex with both. I guess you only talk the talk."

Julien shrinks in the chair like a scolded child.

"Kurt, I am not judging."

Gripping both side of the table so that he can't escape my blotchy red face, I speak evenly.

"I truly don't give a shit what you believe, Julien. That is your freedom here in the good ole, U.S. of A. But, don't flatter yourself. I'm not waitin' on the right moment to take ya from behind. All I'm sayin' is you loved someone, deeply it would seem. They hurt ya bad. I'm not gonna do that. As long as ya need and want a place to stay, yer welcome here."

His voice is a whisper.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You go to Georgia still?"

I can't make out if the blinding pink and white shinning behind Julien's head is the sun rising from the half of un-shuttered window, or more notes. After a few beats the words come.

 _Sometimes the man in you is uneasy; I can see it in your eyes. Just like me you need to know, can you still fly?_

I let go of the table.

"No."

His face, paler than I've ever seen, is more relaxed. Heavy eyes indicate a readiness for sleep.

"No?"

"I can't very well declare not to walk out on you and then…walk out, can I?"

"Thank you, Kurt."

Guiding him up from the table, his skinny body leans into me.

"Don't be so ready to give thanks."

He gives me a sideways glance.

"Today, we rest, but tomorrow, I'm takin' ya to that French priest I found. And you're gonna do some talkin'.

"What French priest?"

We reach the bedroom.

"Sweet dreams, Jude."

I push him towards the bed, close the door and stumble to the couch.

 _More than this._

 _The words to the song forming in Kurt's head are from a Chris de Burh song entitled; "More Than This."_


End file.
